


Jeeves and the Rummy Case of Nosferwhatsit

by godsdaisiechain (preux)



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Film Noir, M/M, Nightmares, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:46:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preux/pseuds/godsdaisiechain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Apology challenge in fan_flashworks.</p><p>Bertie and Jeeves must manage their nightmares after a surfeit of horror movies.<br/>Additional prompts followed: (from the Wodehouse fluff community) 1. Bertie has nightmares--real screamers--and Jeeves tries to comfort him and somehow in the process they end up all cuddly and their true feelings are discovered. 2. Bertie helps Jeeves find something that is important to him; Jeeves is very grateful.</p><p>Warnings: Bertie and Jeeves are clueless about their feelings. Bertie describes some bad dreams</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeeves and the Rummy Case of Nosferwhatsit

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Jeeves and the Hole in Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/160453) by [Mice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice). 



> Inspired partly by the aside between Jeeves and Bertie about 'Nosferatu' giving the young master nightmares in Jeeves and the Hole in Time

**The Rummy Vampyre**

“Sir?!” I never suspected that Jeeves could sound so frightened and upset. The Wooster pipes had closed for the usual business, being much roughened by excessive screaming. “Sir, are you injured?” Under normal circumstances, having one’s valet in the bed is not the done thing, but under the current conditions, it was a most welcome reminder that the sleeping chamber was devoid of that blighted Murnau or his works and empty promises.

It had all started with bally Tuppy Glossop challenging Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright to watch some film by that blasted M. The young Wooster is all for the thriller in the quiet coziness of the bedroom, but the cinema is a different undertaking altogether. The images float up and waft around the dreams causing havoc in the old cranium. I tried to avoid the whole wheeze, but it was not to be.  When you have known a set of chaps from the earliest boyhood, they tend to understand your weak points, and soon they were on Wooster in a worse way than a cheap suit. I had been shamed into attending performance after performance of the most ghastly flicks.

Years afterward, most of the Drones were able to sit through all that Dracula business without turning a hair, earning us a reputation as men of steel, impervious to the sight of that Bela Lugosi flapping about the place frightening the hindquarters off all and sundry. 

In the meantime, the nightmares had been terrible, leading to a great need for naps as young Wooster took to spending the hours of darkness in the company of as many people as possible.  Even Aunt Agatha was a preferable companion to solitude. At the Drones, the hours between luncheon and dressing for cocktails had been unofficially designated as quiet naptime and indoor badminton went on to the wee hours, followed by night clubs. It was a heavy blow for one who enjoyed the comforts of home as much as Bertram.

Jeeves discovered what we were doing when the stress caused a marked need to adjust the Wooster trousers and jackets. His sense of the feudal prevented him from saying anything scornful, but the lift of the eyebrow hinted at a feeling that manly men would not be so phased by mere images flickering across the silver screen.

Things ankled along in this unsatisfactory way until that blighted Murnau came out with a tour de force. Some horrid thing with Nosferawhatsit the vampire. That bally M. is a genius in frightening the individual to the deepest recesses of the soul. Even Tuppy, who could sit through anything, seemed somewhat spooked.  Catsmeat kept me out until after dawn. It makes one think that the Continental mind is an unhappy and distressing sort of a place, what?

Foolishly, young Bertram retired at nine that next night. The dreams featured Florence Craye as a vampyr set on dragging the innocent young Bertram to the altar to be divided into thirds and given to Honoria Glossop, Madeline Bassett and Bobbie Wickham in matching band boxes. I woke to the sound of screams. Then I heard the panic in the Jeevesian tone as he shook me awake. The dialogue was a tad one-sided.

J: Sir?!

B: aaaaaaaaaaaah!

J: Sir, have you been injured? Please speak to me.

B: gahh?!

J: Sir, please answer me.

B: glurgh?

J: Sir, I am begging you

By this time, he had caught both sides of the golden head. He looked dashed rattled.

B: blurgh?

J: Are you hurt?

B: Jeeves?

A long breath huffed out of him, and he pressed the lemon against his breast. It took several moments to calm enough to notice that he was shaking like an aspen. I took in the Jeevesian dressing gown hanging open over patched pajamas, bare feet, and the Rosie M. Banks novel digging into the Wooster thigh. 

I sat up on my own and he started turning on all the lights in the room and checking the washroom, wardrobes and the area under the bed. Subsequent discussion was more dialoguish.

B: Did I wake you?

J: No, sir. I was reading.

B: Jeeves, it is after midnight. 

< cue Jeeves blushes, Bertram boggles>

B: Why were you awake?

J: I would rather not trouble you, sir.

B: It is no trouble Jeeves.  Was something amiss?

J: Some friends and I went to see ‘Nosferatu’ this evening and I did not feel comfortable alone in the dark. Would you like a brandy and soda to soothe your nerves, sir?

B: Good idea, Jeeves. 

He started to shimmer off and the heart paused. It was the work of an instant to scurry after him. We turned on all the lights as we went, checking all the closets and under the settee. I followed him into his lair to retrieve his slippers.  I made Jeeves sit with me on the Chesterfield while we had a restorative.

“Would you read to me for a while?”

“Would you like me to continue your mystery novel, sir?”

“No!  That is, no, Jeeves, perhaps something less exciting.”

“Perhaps you would be more comfortable in your bed, sir?  I can read until you fall asleep.” He settled into a side chair and suddenly the wheeze became quite scary, especially if he was planning to creep back to his lair afterward.

“It would be more sensible for you to sit on the bed, Jeeves. You know, just in case.” I expected him to cut up rough, but the Jeeveses were not at Agincourt. We took all the pillows from the guest room, and Jeeves took the precaution of checking under the bed once more when he thought I was not looking.

Rosie M. Banks is not, generally speaking, the type of thing that appeals to the young master. I communed with Morpheus as soon as the willowy form stopped shaking gently, only to wake screaming and thrashing like a demented thing. The dog Bartholomew had turned into a mummy and was eating everyone’s feet.

Jeeves caught me and asked me to look at him in a broken sort of manner. There was an afghan snarled between us and that bally novel was poking the Wooster ribs unmercifully. He must have dozed off while reading quietly to himself.  Thankfully the lights still blazed.

“Would you like me to read again, sir?”

“Very good, Jeeves.”

On the third waking I gave up the struggle and curled up in his arms. It was weeks before either of us realized how natural it was, how I rested the lemon against him and he cupped the back of the head as if we’d been nestling together for years instead of for the first time.

Jeeves shimmered out sometime in the morning and returned with my usual tea tray at eleven. I fell on the pekoe like a man who had been terrified all night and taken refuge in the arms of his valet.  Jeeves looked like an overdone noodle remaining upright through sheer force of will. It would not do to apologize directly, but something needed to be done to show I appreciated him.

“Would you like the afternoon off?”

“Thank-you, sir.”

 

**A Bally Unsettling Wager**

The Drones was rather thinly populated at lunch and I came away before the designated late nap time. It would not do to wake up screeching like an owl in front of Biffy and Beefy and Barmy. I peeked into the kitchen to find that the cook had left a bit of a mess. Then Mrs. Whatsit trickled back in with an empty plate and made a sort of squeak at the sight of the young master. I what-hoed, which seemed to evoke the maternal. She clucked at the dark marks under the e.s and bunged me up some tea and a scone while she popped a pie out of the oven and jointed a cold chicken without missing a beat. I was almost as impressed as I was when Jeeves handled that swan with only a raincoat and a boat hook.

Mrs. Whatsis was sweet on Jarvis, or ‘Sammy’ as she called him, and gave him offerings of macaroons and scones and meat pies rejected by Jeeves. She prattled about Jeeves while I sipped my tea. It seemed that he tended to burn the porridge on mornings after his club nights. He had charred the pan almost through today. For some reason, the old appetite suddenly returned. She watched me eat a thoughtful scone and then slipped a plate of buttered toast and a spot of warm consommé down on the table. When those disappeared, she set me up with a nice chicken sandwich and a half bot while she bunged bread and biscuits in the oven.

Sated, I ankled down to Jeeves’s lair. The door was slightly ajar, and I oozed in. He was asleep in his battered wing chair, thrashing in a highly dignified manner, under the influence of a nightmare. I gave a manly press of the shoulder. He bolted awake, saw me, and popped up like a gopher, knocking us both down to the floor in a snarl of tweedy limbs. Jeeves righted us in two shakes. “Excuse me, sir.”

“Mrs. Whatsits is just getting ready to leave, Jeeves.” I fished in the pockets. “Perhaps a pound or two for her extra trouble today?”

“Perhaps somewhat less than her fortnightly wage, sir,” he said blandly. “As she has already been given a rather substantial meat pie.”  I must have looked pathetic. “Please do not worry. I will see to it from the housekeeping money. Will you be in for supper?”

“Yes, Jeeves. I think I’ll take a short nap. Wake me at the appropriate time, then.”

“Of course, sir.”

I woke rather before that, having fallen, shrieking, from the Chesterfield in the grip of another nightmare. This time Roderick Glossop was the star vampyr, bent on sucking the insanity out, along with all my blood, which he was going to feed to a sea of cats and dead fish. Jeeves, looking pasty and a bit wild about the e.s., scooped me up from the carpet.

The evening was subdued. After a light tea, I gave Jeeves leave to attend the Junior Ganymede and stopped into the club for some darts and a snifter. Tuppy was in the bar drinking a moody b and s.

“That Nosferathingummy, Bertie.”

“Yes, old fruit?”

“Rather enjoyable spot of film.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly. Very fine use of lights and shadow and whatsit.”

“Exactly.  Very artistic and all that. Perhaps we’ve done with the horror film, though.”

“Ah, time to move on to the next challenge?”

“Precisley. Besides which, the theater is stopping those because of complaints. But I am pipped with you, Bertie.  I’ve lost a packet betting on how long it would take before Jeeves stopped you going.”

Wooster remained cucumber cool. “Whatsit?”

“I said you would stop within two weeks, and Catsmeat said a month.”  They were both wrong.  It had been nearly two months. “We bet ten pounds.”

“Ah.”

“I said that I’d give you the money if I was wrong.”

“So twenty pounds to Wooster, then?” Catsmeat trickled in.

“At two to one.” Tuppy forked over the oof and I doled out for our drinks and oozed home. No one apologized.  Sometimes friendship means not having to say you’re sorry.

 

**The Center of the Home**

Jeeves met me at the door in peaked and wan evening dress. “Good evening, sir.” The comfort of having Jeeves as the center of my home warmed the heart most welcomely.

“You needn’t have waited up, Jeeves.” The broad grin on the dial rather contradicted the words.

He flushed slightly. “It is no hardship, sir. I was reading.” I took this to indicate that he was reluctant to turn out the lights, which appeared a wise and sound policy.

“Perhaps we can continue your book?”

“Very good, sir.”

Once Wooster was pajama-ed, Jeeves settled himself into the side chair and began reading about some beazel with proud curls and clear and fearless eyes. I nodded off and woke with a sharp gasp.  It was making to be another long night. “Perhaps we should just cut to the end, Jeeves.  Bung on the nightwear and ooze back.”

“As you say, sir.” Jeeves checked behind the door as he flowed out. It was the work of a moment to don slippers and dressing gown and fly after him. Many though the faults of Jeeves, he left the door slightly ajar while changing.

I settled into the bed while Jeeves made up a cot. “Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Is this going into the Junior Ganymede book?”

He flushed. “You viewed ten films and nearly seven weeks transpired before you woke up screaming. Your endurance was greater than that of all the other Drones. I recorded that in the book.  It was greatly entertaining to the membership.”

Bertram slipped out of the bed, knocking the lemon on night table and collapsing the cot. “Greater?”

“Yes, sir.” 

Jeeves gathered me back up and tried to set the cot back up.

“Greater than Stilton?”

“He woke screaming on the first night after watching  _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_.”

“What did you wager?” He looked annoyed. The cot was broken.

“I placed two pounds at 25 to one. I apologize for the liberty, sir, but it was a matter of honor.”

“Ah. Twenty-five to one?  No confidence in the young master? Tuppy and Catsmeat wagered that you would henpeck and prevent me going out to horror films.”

“Indeed, sir.” He was most definitely pipped. “I had not been aware of that aspect of the situation.” 

“Why did you go to see Nosferthingummy?”

“One of the Junior Ganymedes suggested that we would be better able to withstand the performance than our employers.”

“Ah.  And?”

“On the whole he was correct. I, however, appear to have been more strongly affected than the rest.” I did not believe this for a moment.  Those bally butlers and valets were having him on.  The Pride of the Woosters was at stake here.

We regarded the splintered bits that had once held up the cot. “You are staying in this room tonight Jeeves.” He did not argue, being somewhat occupied checking the underside of the bed yet again. We curled up together. It was the first really sound sleep I’d had in weeks.  

 

**Apology on the Bravery of Jeeves**

The next day, I ankled over for a chat with Roberts.  I had a discreet tot with Aunt Agatha’s and Aunt Dahlia’s and Uncle George’s London butlers, and called on Lady Bittlesham and then took Jarvis aside for a quiet conversation. Mrs. Whatsit, or Molly, had a nephew who served at the Junior Ganymede. Three days later, there was news, but I waited until the next morning to tell Jeeves.  There had been a cheerful little supper and Wooster had passed out on the mat before any speaking could take place. He had taken the liberty of staying with me, and I woke before he did. I’d never seen him looking so unguarded before, not even in the clubs in New York.  I found I rather liked his face.  The bean throbbed mercilessly.

Jeeves awakened and made to flow off for tea and toast and a much-needed restorative, but Bertram held on tightly, onion pressed into his shoulder. “Not yet Jeeves.” A strong, reassuring arm came around the willowy form and the back of the head was gently stroked. “I found out about your fellows. They are having the pip with you. Half of them didn’t even see that blighted Nosferathingum.” He froze. “They pulled a blighted fast one.”

I could almost feel him thinking. He began to rub the willowy back. “Would you like a restorative?”

“Yes.”  He somehow shimmered off without jarring the aching bean and was back within a few minutes with the dark drink.  He helped me tip it down the hatch and soothed me back to sleep. 

I woke some hours later tucked in nicely. A piping hot cup of tea was sitting on the bedside table, the raiment was laid out, and my bath was full and steaming gently.  I could hear the sounds of Jeeves biffing about setting the place to rights as I drank the fragrant brew and cleansed and clothed the corpus. The flat was immaculate. Then, as I sat down to a splendid repast, Jeeves paused.

“Yes, Jeeves?”

“Sir, you have restored a point of some pride to me. I must express my gratitude.”

“Nonsense, Jeeves. It is the Pride of the Woosters at stake when you are impugned, if that is the word I want. I can’t have anyone making you look a fool. Well, besides the young master, of course.”

“Thank-you, sir.”  He made to shimmer off.

“Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Thank-you for guarding me from the terrors of the night. I am sorry if I disturbed your sleep.”

“On the contrary. It was my pleasure, sir.”

“Mine as well, Jeeves. You’re welcome to make a habit of it.”

The Jeevesian dial went scarlet. “I would like that very much, sir.”

“Very good. Carry on, Jeeves.”  But he didn’t. He moved back and brushed the golden hair behind one ear and kissed the top of the lemon and then the forehead and then the lips.  Before I could react, he had disappeared into the kitchen. A slow, sweet smile curved the Wooster lips.  The young master would be staying in today, it seemed. 


End file.
